


Evocatio

by Anecdoche (so_psychso)



Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: (just a bit of angst initially), (only a very Very little bit), Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bondage, Bottom Tim, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff and Smut, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Top Jonny, Trans Male Character, dubcon for the drugging bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25373392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_psychso/pseuds/Anecdoche
Summary: Communication is a two way street. Tim learns this the Jonny-way.
Relationships: Jonny d'Ville/Gunpowder Tim
Comments: 17
Kudos: 107





	Evocatio

**Author's Note:**

> god God why did this take so LONG i hope this is anything bc im so sick of looking at it. unbeta'd af and it definitely shows, but blease take it im so tired <3

It’s crucial that Tim doesn’t suspect a thing, otherwise the whole bloody infrastructure of his vulnerability’s going to crash down and leave Jonny with far more of a mess on his hands than can be solved by a simple fuck. And this already promises to try his patience in a myriad of new and potentially vexing ways, so it _has_ to be perfect. Timing, execution—hell, even the chipper salute the Toy Soldier throws him three hours before it’s meant to go down—it must be flawless. 

Because, above all else, it has to be good—Jonny wants it to be good, wants to be what Tim needs, because rarer than a day without bloodshed or meaningless screwing are these moments when they just… are. Existing. Being. Two men, afflicted of senseless immortality, looking for any goddamn way to feel again. Which, well, more or less devolves into bloodshed and screwing, but there are seconds of clarity, of _need_ and _want_ and _ache_ that go so much deeper than a hasty fuck against the nearest flat surface. 

Tedious and ephemeral, that unnameable sensation makes an impossible presence regardless of how well either man pretends to chase it off or how quickly they say it’s a farce, a weakness, a momentary lapse of better judgements. Because it’s always there, contrived of their efforts to dissuade it.

It’s in the seconds when their bodies meet in the throes of contact, skin against skin against tongue and fingers and climax and release. It’s in the way Jonny cards his fingers just a little too softly through Tim’s hair. Or when Tim lets his mouth linger a bit too long on the scars slashed around Jonny’s left wrist.

It’s when they don’t look away fast enough and find themselves snared in the others' gazes as things go all tight and wet and rushing rushing _rushing_ them over the edge they claim to want so _badly_ , but that’s the worst of it. When it’s over. And it’s back to pretend. Back to: _feel it like it’s a wound torn open or not at all._

And apparently, it’s finally taken its toll. Mostly, Jonny’s fine with how things are. He gets the occasional, inexplicable pangs, though the last poor bastard to call him sentimental was left with a parting gift of lead between the eyes. Of course, the whole point of _him_ is that he’s not heartless. Or he is. Or… something. 

Point _is_ , Tim’s not so easily swayed to that side of apathy, and so it’s transpired that he apparently _trusts_ Jonny enough to ask such a thing. Well, that’s putting it generously; it was hardly some grand, revelatory moment of gushing tears and bleeding heartstrings. No, just a passing comment stammered out that other night, when Tim had Jonny on all fours taking his cock nice and deep and slow. A bit too intimate for Jonny’s preferences, but it’d been a long day and he was tired and sore and needed a come down from the afternoon’s kill count. 

Until Tim got cocky, and Jonny made some half-baked threat about how he’d better either put his back into it or get on his own. Which resulted in Tim firing back his own coy little comment, most of which Jonny didn’t catch—too focused on his stunted orgasm—but he _did_ make out a definite tone of… intrigue.

And for some stupid, annoying reason that had stuck with Jonny and stayed there, lodged in the back of his mind even in the long minutes after they’d both come and were laying in a sweaty tangle. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” This, said as if divorced from Jonny's cognizance entirely, because he certainly didn’t put any thought behind it. But there it was anyway, hovering in the space between his and Tim’s wide, searching eyes.

“I–” Tim started, and then shook his head, as if that might clear the strange reverence in his expression, but before Jonny could goad after it, the man was kissing him, rough and fast and breathless. 

And then Tim was hard again, and Jonny had rather lost his momentum to Tim’s.

And that had been that—had been two weeks ago. Two awful, dry weeks of nothing, Tim avoiding him like any number of pathogens, and Jonny’s not sure which he finds more pathetic: that Tim wants to submit himself like that; that he’s avoiding him _because_ of it; or that he, Jonny, is… really fucking into the idea of it. That he’s _worried_ about Tim as a result. A man’s pleasure is his own pursuit, in Jonny’s opinion, but Tim is making this _his_ problem now, too. Which is bullshit.

He’s worried because he’s, well, _worried_. Tim won’t come to him to explain, to discuss any kind of parameters, instead contenting himself to driving the rest of the crew a bit mad with his tedious presence, insinuating himself everywhere Jonny isn’t. So eventually Jonny just… gives up. Throws in the towel. Decides to take matters into his own hands. He and Tim have been an item for far too long for anything to be _truly_ “off the table” so when week three rolls around, Jonny decides he’s had enough, that if _this_ is the angle Tim’s going to play at, well there’s always room for an ace or two. 

It’s simple. So simple. Get the Toy Soldier to offer a drink spiked with some innocuous sedative Nastya’s begrudgingly provided—(not for moral reasons, of course, only Jonny pestered her until she finally put aside her own research and endeavored to entertain his request)—then wait till Tim passes out which… okay that doesn’t transpire as planned, because Jonny can’t help _lurking_ as the Toy Soldier carries out its part in this, and there’s no reasonable way for Jonny to extenuate his presence when Tim, halfway through enjoying his drink _in_ his quarters, gives a, “I can bloody see you, Jonny.”

It gets a bit immediate, then. Whatever Nastya whipped up, it doesn’t fuck around, and no sooner has Tim started to make his way toward the door than he’s suddenly _not_ doing that, pitching forward like a puppet cut loose of its master. Thankfully, the Toy Soldier hadn’t abandoned its post, and it catches Tim before he goes face first to the floor. 

“ _Please don’t think I’m being insubordinate, Jonny_! _”_ It trills concernedly. “ _But I think this has rather become a matter of things not going to plan_!”

“Shut up,” is Jonny’s reply, always quick to improvise. “And get him on the bed.”

“ _Sure_!” The Soldier hastens to obey, Jonny meanwhile counting his losses that it doesn’t seem like he’ll get Tim back to his quarters without a great fucking to-do.

_Christ_ , this was a stupid idea. Yeah sure! Drug the man and it’ll all go great from there, bloody hell.

The alternative—actually _talking_ it out—is still infinitely worse by comparison, so this will have to suffice. Still… this means he’ll need to detour back to his room for the necessary supplies.

“Watch him,” Jonny orders the Soldier, who has succeeded in sprawling Tim out atop the bed and is now fussing over the particulars, reassembling his limbs in a less skewed manner and brushing his hair out on the pillows.

“Did I ask you to do that?” Jonny demands, a terrible pang that’s far too close to _fondness_ for his liking jabbing at the back of his throat, and the Soldier flinches.

“ _Of course not, I just didn’t like the way his elbows looked is all_!” 

“Yeah well, keep an eye on the rest of him, would you? I’ll be right back.”

“ _What should I do if he wakes up_!”

“He won’t.”

“ _That is kind of concerning, Jonny_!”

“Not– _Christ_ –TS, just _stay_ put, yeah? And, actually, make yourself useful and get him undressed.”

At least somewhat capable of picking up on exasperation, the Soldier forgoes another chipper retort for an equally rote salute, and Jonny ducks out of the room, ignoring the wider implications of this tagging after him like a miasma. Or a hoard of mutant kittens. 

Tim wants this. Jonny _knows_ he does. Maybe not in this exact manner, but what the hell else was Jonny supposed to do? Wait another age till Tim got up the post-coital courage to ask for something up his arse? 

“Piss off,” Jonny mutters under his breath.

Keeps muttering all the way to his quarters—which is in no way a ploy to abstain from his creeping emotions, a cocktail of bad opinions he never asked for. This is _Tim’s_ fault, and he’s going to pay the price for it. Yes, Jonny very much intends to make him beg forgiveness. 

Despite the various somersaults his stomach makes at the prospect of going back to the lion’s den, Jonny retrieves the necessary items with no small amount of haste: rope, lube, harness _et al_ (a pretty coal black, double ended thing of ridges and a daunting girth that makes Jonny ache pleasantly with remembered—ah— _practice_.)

He entertains a fleeting panic as he skulks his way back to Tim’s room, first at the issue of possibly running into any of the other crew, and then with the unbidden dread that he might very well walk back in on a conscious Tim.

Luck deigns to indulge her adage, however, and the sight that greets Jonny is very promising, indeed. The Toy Soldier made excellent work of Tim’s clothes, each article neatly folded or hung or draped, and it apparently took Jonny’s prior frustrations to memory, because it hasn’t bothered to position Tim in any particular way—just sort of left him sprawled on the bed, naked and ever so pretty for Jonny’s perusal.

And peruse he does, sparing a triumphant moment to admire the man. Even in a questionably drug-induced stupor, his face wears its scars well beside all the painted softness of his jaw and cheekbones. His hair, though terribly a mess by its usual standards, fans out heedless of tangles making as much of snags as it does the insufferably perfect ringlets Jonny so loves to grab fistfuls of. Juxtaposed to Jonny’s stockier build, the rest of Tim is gnawingly lean, swells of muscle forever warring with the stubborn evidence of undernourishment, and his hip bones and clavicle jut at painful angles, making Jonny’s mouth feel suddenly too hot at the promise of tasting the stretched-taut skin.

It strikes him, as he strides over, how rare a thing it is to have Tim like this, completely exposed and docile. Their usual jaunts average about 45% of clothing out the way, if at all, and it’s got him feeling something _of_ a way about Tim as a result. A couple centuries together is apt to inspire at least some sort of camaraderie, sure, especially if a substantial enough portion of that is spent with said comrade’s cock at various points of bodily ingress. But he digresses.

Fact of the matter is that _Tim_ is insufferably gorgeous, and Jonny is looking forward to leaving his mark. Rope burn, for starters—ignoring the fact the soft, hemp length he’s got (lavender braided through with a single gold strand) is supposed to deter that altogether. 

Either way, he’ll reap that reward first and foremost, the most pressing concern being he get Tim done up both pragmatically and functionally. For this, he once more beckons over the Toy Soldier, it still standing to attention and smartly keeping silent about the regrettable bit of reverie that overcame Jonny in his admiration of Tim’s state.

“ _Shall I get his legs, then_?” It queries, as Jonny kneels on the bed and begins maneuvering Tim’s arms overhead, debating whether crossed wrists or a full forearm harness would be best.

“Yeah,” he says, tone hushed for all the good it’ll do in waking Tim up before the sedative’s had its fun. “Leave his right free, but get the left up and out, and try and tie off around his waist a bit.”

“ _That is very vague,_ ” the Soldier effuses, “ _but I will do my best_!”

Jonny offers it a grunt by way of response, zeroing in on his own task. He settles on a simple series of loops binding Tim’s arms so they’re met elbows-to-wrists, and finishes off with a slipknot anchored at the head of the bed. Easy for him to yank loose at a moment’s notice, and impossible for Tim to agitate on his own. Perfect. Not pretty—not in any sort of way that could possibly compliment Tim’s infuriating bone structure—but good enough.

The Toy Soldier, meanwhile, has outdone itself and then some, and when Jonny turns around, he’s met with the sight of, well, almost exactly what he’d had in mind, give or take a few embellishments he is _more_ than happy with.

As requested, the Soldier’s left Tim’s right leg untouched, but the left is… exquisite is hardly a word to make a home of Jonny’s personal dictionary, but it really is the only one for this. An even lattice of knots and loops adorn Tim’s left leg, securing it bent and thrust outward as to form something of a backwards “4” with the right. The rope snakes up and around and through itself, climbing Tim’s pale skin like a trellis, the knots blooming at precise points indicative of the Soldier’s innate fastidiousness. The effect is spoiled, somewhat, by the unfinished ends of the rope the Soldier holds in its hands, and it cocks its head playfully as Jonny gives it a look.

“ _I thought you might like to finish it off! Only I don’t think there’s enough to go around his waist, I got a little too excited about the knee, you see_!”

“I do,” Jonny grumbles, indeed loathe to sacrifice the complicated web its taken to hinge the rope around the joint and bring it back up Tim’s thigh. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he concedes, taking the rope from the Soldier with one hand while administering a dismissive wave with the other.

“ _Is that all_!” The Soldier asks, and Jonny nods.

“Yup, outdone yourself proper, TS, no more use for you.”

“ _Glad to be of service_!” 

“Mhm, now fuck off, would you?”

The Soldier does as much with another salute, and only when the door’s slid shut to Tim’s room and the echoing tread of the Soldier has faded away does Jonny finally feel a little less nervous about this. By no means is he jumping at the bit, but that’s performance anxiety for you. Still, there’s no harm in sparing another few moments to take stock of the effort that’s gone in thus far, and truly Tim will have to appreciate at least that.

Sitting back on his heels, then, Jonny rolls his shoulders, working out several knots of tension, sighing as he does so. It’s been a regrettably long time since he’s been up to this task, and fucking always does result in a much more distinct ache than _being_ fucked.

At this, he considers whether he should go about getting ready, but it doesn’t feel quite right. Not yet time and all. He wants Tim to watch him prepare, wants the man to wake up and realize just how painfully exposed he is. Wants him to ask for it, unreserved, explicit, and honest.

It’s still… however long until the sedative wears off, and Jonny soon grows tired of just sitting there. Surely a little touching won’t go remiss, though he resolves to keep it above the belt till Tim’s conscious. Bulls and china plates and all that, and Jonny does have his standards.

“Just don’t know what’s good for you,” he mutters softly, scooting closer so he can brush Tim’s cheek with his knuckles. Temple to jaw to chin, and back up, smooth skin to well-kempt beard. Then up to his hairline, and Jonny gives his full attention to working out a snare, careful not to break any strands or perturb the natural curl. 

Exercising diligence, he recalls fondly how nice all that pretty hair feels bunched up and _pulled_ when Tim forgets himself in the midst of their passions and lets his head fall onto Jonny’s shoulder. The mate’s fingers itch to find purchase, even now, maybe even get his legs astride Tim’s lovely mouth, but just because Jonny’s fine waking up to a cock down his throat doesn’t mean Tim would appreciate the same. Plus, in Jonny’s case, that would involve a lot more maneuvering than he cares to bother with, and he’s still trying to get his nerves under control.

Best to just wait till the sedative’s run its course.

As it transpires, this lends Jonny about ten more minutes, and he’s almost so deep in his own meditations on all the ways he wants to make Tim come that he nearly misses the hitch in Tim’s next inhale.

Jonny freezes, his heretofore steady pulse crashing headlong into a wave of anticipation that sends his stomach somewhere in the general vicinity of his feet.

Another stilted inhale from Tim, and a few twinges in the muscles of his neck and jaw, and Jonny has to resist the burning urge to get a hand across that throat and his tongue between Tim’s teeth. 

It’s more rewarding to wait, to watch the man grapple his way back to consciousness. Even better is when he finally does, and his eyes snap wide open, glazed in a film of whatever drugs still addle his system, but intensely focused all the same. 

“Jonny,” he manages hoarsely, and the mate doesn’t even try to hide his grin.

“Don’t wear it out,” he replies, his nerves fled in an instant of cocky self-surety as Tim seems to register more of his predicament, limbs flexing against their bonds.

“Jonny,” Tim says again, licking his lips, his head falling sidelong so he can properly see the whorls of lavender rope climbing his body. 

“What is—I swear to—Jonny, untie me _right now_.”

By way of response, Jonny simply slings his leg astride Tim’s torso, curling possessively over him and swallowing whatever half-assed threat was next to come in a lingering, biting kiss.

“No,” he says against Tim’s slack, welcoming mouth, “don’t suppose I will.”

“What is this.”

It’s neither a question nor a demand. There’s no real need for clarification, but then Tim always does have that cheeky little way about him—always needs to hear Jonny say things aloud. This typically equates to forcing the mate to admit all the depraved things he wants Tim to do to him, but the roles are rather reversed, now, and Jonny has no qualms whatsoever detailing to Tim _exactly_ what he means to make of this evening.

“Thought I’d take the initiative,” Jonny begins, waltzing bruising fingers along Tim’s collar, up his throat, pressing _hard_ beneath his jaw so the man hasn’t even the meager dignity of looking away. 

And Jonny does so love to see those pretty eyes.

“Th’fuck are you talking about,” Tim spits, though the flick of tongue that slips out to soothe his kissed swollen lips belies any ire. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” Jonny says, and the simplicity of the statement echoes jarringly with the elaborate display of everything else.

Of Tim spread and bound, all his wants and gasps and pleas at Jonny’s disposal. At his command. At whatever mercy he deigns to grant, because he will not relent until Tim’s a complete and perfect mess.

Which has to start somewhere, of course, so sans further elucidations, Jonny straightens up and holds hostage Tim’s gaze as he arcs back, just a little, just enough, his hand blindly guided till his rough scarred palm meets the join of Tim’s inner thigh, and the man’s eyes blow wide, his teeth tightening around a striated inhale.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Jonny says again, “until you beg me to stop. And you know what, Tim?”

He moves his hand in, and leers as he wraps it around Tim’s cock—already hardening.

“I’m not going to.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Tim grits out, his composure remarkable but ultimately fruitless.

“S’at so?” And Jonny strokes him lazily.

“ _Yes_ ,” Tim growls, but his glare withers under its own strain, eyelids drooping low, and an involuntary arch spasms out of his prone spine as Jonny teases a heavy thumb at the head of his cock.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jonny says. “But if you don’t mind—”

And in a span of some truly impressive seconds, Jonny’s shimmied himself down Tim’s stomach so he’s straddling the man’s calves.

“Don’t worry,” he sighs, fondly exasperated as Tim jerks unsteadily in his bonds. “Not fucking you quite yet. Want a little fun myself, you know? And you look gorgeous, _love_.”

He spits the epithet typically reserved for his own abasement with equal parts ardor and disdain, and Tim snarls, but he’s easy to unwind if you’ve learned the frays to him, and Jonny has gleaned more than enough to take as much leeway as he wants.

Which doesn’t equate to anything of particular creativity, but it’s always nice to know you’re appreciated, and Tim lets him know exactly that as Jonny repositions himself again, at last getting his lips around Tim’s cock. 

But only that, only his lips, a delicate ring of thoroughly inadequate pressure and suction he keeps trained at the head of Tim’s cock.

A lingering groan seeps through Tim’s lips as he glares down at Jonny, his arms—the muscles in his thighs, all twitching in their restraints. Jonny just stays put, watching Tim with adoring malice, waiting.

“Oh f- _fuck_ you,” Tim seethes, and bucks his hips, sliding neatly into the soft, wet heat of Jonny’s mouth.

_Gotcha_ , Jonny thinks triumphantly, and bears down to meet Tim’s momentum, choking pleasantly as the head hits the back of his throat. 

This is usually where Tim takes ahold of his hair and they have a fun little game of “let’s see how long until Jonny passes out.” Denying Tim any such control in the matter, Jonny sees fit to test his own limits himself, working his tongue up and down the shaft of Tim’s cock with sloppy, arrhythmic licks. 

“You’re thew-worst,” Tim gasps.

Pulling back for a breath, Jonny blinks away the tears gathered sharply in his eyes, and relishes the image of Tim with his head thrown back.

“Guess I just gotta try my best then,” the mate counters, and dives back down. 

He finds a pace quickly enough, though denies Tim anything save his lips and tongue. No hand. No teeth. And definitely not his throat. Much as Jonny loves to indulge that, he wants his voice to last, and Tim seems just fine with how things have transpired thus far, whining so sweetly when Jonny pauses around the head of his cock again, sucking and laving, savoring the weight and shape in his mouth. 

It’s nice. Really fucking nice, and he’d be content to stay here all night, draining every last bit of pleasure from Tim, but sometimes he’s a man of his word, even if that’s just to himself. Not that Tim’s proving any real reticence. No, he wants this just as much as Jonny—just needed to be loosened up a bit. 

Speaking of… 

When he pulls back this time, he sits up, leaving Tim’s flushed cock to bob heavily onto his stomach.

“ _Jonny_ ,” he growls, glaring at the mate as he gives a few aborted thrusts with his hips.

“No,” Jonny says flatly, and braces his left hand on Tim’s stomach while his right gropes blindly through the pile of paraphernalia at the side of the bed. 

“Said I’m going to fuck you,” Jonny repeats, his hand closing around a small bottle of lube. “Hell, if you quit being such a fucking wanker, maybe I’ll even suck you off while I finger you.”

“You piece o—”

Jonny lunges, the hand on Tim’s stomach striking straight for his throat, and the rest of that sentence gets caught up in a guttural heave, Tim writhing into the pressure as his eyes roll to the back of his head.

“I know what you want,” Jonny seethes, depositing the lube on the bed to make use of his other hand. 

Fierce and fast, he takes hold of Tim’s cock, stroking it roughly. 

“Always so quick to tell me off, eh? Make me tell you every _fucking_ detail? Well now it’s your turn. I _know_ you want this, so you’re going to tell me every goddamn thing you want me to do to you. Understand?”

Though far less eloquent than he'd been rehearsing in his head, it gets the point across nicely, and Tim concedes with a lovely, raspy, “ _Please_ ,” that earns Jonny’s pity, and he loosens his grip around the man’s throat.

“M’sorry,” this, whispered with untenable affection, to which Jonny rolls his eyes, leans in, and kisses Tim breathless.

“Don’t be a damn martyr about it,” he threatens against Tim’s lips.

“Hard not to,” Tim manages. “Got me bound at your mercy.”

“Prick,” Jonny spits, and licks his way back into Tim’s mouth, enjoying how pliant it’s become to his insistent abuses. 

He’s right, though. There’s no escape, and with Tim’s consent about as transparent as it’s going to get, Jonny relaxes into their closeness, enjoying to slick heat of Tim’s tongue against his, the uneven groans and twinges his body relinquishes as Jonny toys with his cock.

Thus far unnoticed, Jonny takes great pains not to grind down too noticeably on Tim’s naval as he sits up, the tension between his own legs pulsing steadily.

“Need some help, love?” Tim sneers at the mate, oblivious to how compromised he looks in his bindings.

“Shut up,” Jonny says anyway, never wholly immune to Tim’s thrall.

“Hm, thought you wanted me to talk?”

“If it’s all the same, I’ll just gag you and do what I want.” 

Tim breathes out, a shaky little laugh as a color rises higher on his cheeks, and Jonny grins wickedly.

“Like that, do you?” 

He’s being far more aggressive than he’d planned for, but if this is the angle Tim wants to take, he’s more than happy with it. Never does well with the sentimental, him. But this? This sits neatly in his wheelhouse.

“Maybe another time,” Tim says, drawing Jonny back to the present. Which is a _wonderfully_ promising thing to hear—Jonny could easily get used to this.

“What about now,” the mate says, careful to lace the words with a cruel enough tone to mask the genuine concern.

He needn’t have bothered, really, the effect on Tim immediate and telling and just so, so pretty. That cotton pink flush of his climbs to his hairline, spills down his clavicle, and the plane of his stomach twinges with short, quick inhales. His cock pulses in Jonny’s grip, and the mate squeezes in kind, enamored of how just that sends Tim’s eyes fluttering all over again.

“Want you,” the man breathes. “J— _mm_ , n’please.”

“No need to be fucking _polite_ ,” Jonny sneers, relishing each thread plucked free of Tim’s resolve. 

“No need to be a bitch, either, but here we are,” Tim replies, far too coherently for Jonny’s taste.

“Fair enough,” the mate says smoothly, and wriggles back down Tim’s thighs, grabbing the lube as he goes. 

Slicking up the index and middle fingers of one hand, he deftly grabs Tim’s left leg with the other, and yanks it outwards, making something pop, but Tim’s groan of discomfort lasts less than the time it takes for Jonny to get his mouth back around his cock, his fingers teasing against Tim’s hole.

“Sh- _shit_ ,” Tim hisses, squirming as Jonny traces his rim, docile circles all feather light and cruelly ticklish.

“Mmmmhm,” he hums, mouth otherwise occupied, and he gives a deliciously hard suck as he slips his index finger in to the last knuckle.

“Fuck you’re tight,” he slurs around the head of Tim’s cock, letting a small cascade of saliva drip obscenely down the shaft.

“ _J’nny_ ,” Tim grits out, hips giving pathetic little thrusts, which Jonny meets eagerly, curling his finger up into tight heat, searching with infinite precision till he finds a spot that makes Tim buck and scream, a throaty howl pushing free of his heaving chest.

“ _Gotcha_ ,” Jonny mutters, and swallows Tim’s cock to the root as he massages his finger up, back, up again, brutal and perfect and just the right amount of _mean._

Tim, for what little part he actually has in this, responds gorgeously, devolving into a shuddering, sobbing mess, till he can barely string a sentence. 

“Jonny,” he eventually gasps, with a lilt that makes the heat between Jonny’s legs ache. “ _Jonny f-fuck_ , m’gonna–f’you don’t s-sto— _aah_!”

Jonny pulls off his cock, lips cherry swollen and vicious grinning.

“ _Do it_ ,” he growls, and takes hold of Tim’s cock with his free hand, stroking him slowly, twisting his wrist when he reaches the head, sliding back down, all the while his single finger undoing every knot of tension in the man splayed before him.

They lock eyes, then—for a breath, a hitch, a momentous glimmer of exposure and pleasure. Tim’s gaze, hazy and wide and glazed. Jonny’s, searching and bemused. 

“ _Come_.”

And Tim does, as though an eddying tide has claimed his body, rendering him to naught but a languid arch of the spine, the faint twitches of the muscles in his stomach, his hips, the steady pulse of his cock as he paints Jonny’s face with each streak on the upbeat of the mate’s hand working him, ever diligent, ever hungry, for more and more, till he can’t give anything save a few sad whimpers, and a plea.

“ _Too much_.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jonny leers, looking all the more manic for the cum dripping across his nose and cheeks.

He doesn’t bother cleaning it, just shuffles out from between Tim’s legs and sets about readying himself, properly. 

Tim, for all he’s fucked out, does make a valiant effort to watch the mate as he divests his trousers and pants.

“Like what you see?” Jonny derides, not even sparing the poor man a glance as he fumbles with the buckles of his harness.

In the rising heat of the moment, he convinces himself it’s because the bloody thing needs about as much attention as any circuit grid, though a niggling part of him knows he’d just as likely self-immolate if he dared to look Tim in the eye while affixing a dildo. 

“Want you,” Tim mutters, somehow still able to employ his gruff cadence despite Jonny’s best efforts to fuck it out of him.

No matter, there’s always round two.

“Think you can take me?” Jonny replies, tone arch, smile fixed, even as his breath gets caught halfway through the question as he works the proper end of the dildo into himself. Furiously hiding the flush that climbs his neck and cheeks, he gets the rest of the harness in due order, and gruffly turns back to Tim.

And just about every hope of an upper hand flees, tail between its legs, as Jonny takes in the sight of Tim, laying, waiting, so patient for his reckoning.

Really, the man puts to shame every scribble Botticelli ever splattered across his petty canvases, every angle and curve of Tim’s body adorned with a dusty rose glow, his hair spilling in tidal whorls of chestnut even where it’s matted to his forehead. That, itself, does little to subdue the fathomless gaze he levies upon Jonny, adoring and wild all at once in such a confluence that Jonny can only bear a second to meet them before looking away, shyly overwhelmed.

“Always,” comes a demure little murmur, and Jonny can’t stay the sharp inhale that races up his nose, swirling through his head in a champagne burst of sensation.

“We’ll see about that,” he rebuffs, his voice sitting at a threshold of gloaming awe where his usual dark dripping cadence prefers to deliver its truest threats.

Damn Tim— _bloody_ damn him.

“Yessir, captain,” Tim fires back, appropriately imperious for the grin he gives Jonny as the mate settles back between his legs.

Jonny slaps him. And before Tim can find his bearings, Jonny kisses him, stealing the man’s shocked exhale for his own breath, and sneering against his lips.

“Gonna fuck you now,” he promises, tracing Tim’s lips as they shiver, searching out more of Jonny's touch.

Ever the gracious partner, Jonny indulges him another peck, a swipe of tongue, a nip of teeth—all very perfunctory, and Tim actually pouts when he sits up again.

“Don’t look so put out,” Jonny says, none-too-delicately patting Tim’s cheek where the unmistakable shadow of a hand print makes red of Tim’s terribly pink blush.

“Don’t be such a cocktease, then,” Tim huffs.

Which promptly trembles into a whine as Jonny grabs his spent cock, giving it a rough tug.

“Far be it from me to keep you waiting,” the mate says, and shoves Tim’s legs apart, as wide as his bonds allow.

He’s got his finger shoved back into Tim’s arse within the minute, followed by a second, then a third when Tim’s gasps grow thoroughly needy. Luxuriating in the calm before the storm, Jonny pumps his fingers slowly, stretching and massaging, all the while barely stroking Tim’s cock.

“N _’hh_ , hurts…” Tim grits out. Jonny just flicks his thumb at the head of his cock and carries on.

Much as he’s keen on the idea of fucking Tim through overstimulation, that’s a satisfaction better reserved after they’ve established tonight’s parameters. Jonny doesn’t _quite_ want to break the man, contrary to everything thus far threatened.

He’s thorough about it, methodical, gauging every reaction from Tim, cataloging every inhale, every curse and plea that’s spat his way until, finally, all Tim can manage are kittenish noises, meek and frail and just where Jonny wants him.

“Shh, there we are,” he purrs, easing Tim’s legs somehow wider, making room for all of himself and rubbing the slicked up head of his strap over Tim’s perineum. 

“God… _Jonny_ ,” Tim breathes, staring as if through the mate, entirely, his eyes unfocused, unmoored from their piercing verisimilitude. Where pitted black usually sits in its steadfast resolution, now ash grey smolders, stares. Wanting.

No fanfare sounds as Jonny lines himself up and pushes into Tim’s body, not even a metaphor to spare the moment from its excruciating intimacy. Simply, it is them and them alone, together and taking and giving and feeling everything there is to accept when bodies make ecstasies of each other. 

And Tim accepts him beautifully. Fully, harshly, slowly, deeply, however Jonny sets the pace, Tim yields to him.

“ _Please_ ,” he keeps saying, over and over, as if Jonny isn’t giving him everything already.

He redoubles his efforts, anyway, hissing sharply as the end of the dildo lodged inside his cunt gives a mean buck, the angle bruising against him, flaying sticky static into his pulse.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he seethes, and arches over Tim, grabbing him by the wrists for leverage and pounding into the man.

“Fuck _fuck_ , feel so _fucking_ good.”

And, again, there comes that feeble little “ _please_ ” but something else limps behind it, more words Jonny incidentally cuts off with another cruel thrust.

“Mm?” He hums, lifting his head and scraping his teeth over Tim’s lower lip. “Have to speak up, you know.”

And, oh, if only Jonny had paid closer attention, spent a bit less time relishing his own ego. Perhaps then he might have noticed how loose the bindings around Tim’s arms have become, maybe even glimpsed the careful ministrations Tim employed each time his back was turned. After all, Jonny’s knots have nothing on the Toy Soldier’s. 

But, hindsight and all that, and Jonny can’t see what’s coming at all. First, he’s hunched over Tim, fucking into him in slow, measured rhythms. Then, abruptly, he’s on his back, with a lapful of Tim and his own wrists pinned overhead, Tim staring him down, that gleed behind each pupil flared to life with triumphant glee.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” Jonny growls, but can’t get out the rest, Tim bearing down on his strap with such blinding force, it punches the air clean from Jonny’s throat.

“You always—look—so pretty—like this,” Tim groans, each syllable expelled in tandem with the rise and fall of his hips.

“Wanted– _nhh_ –wanted to give that back to–to you.”

And, well, Jonny hasn’t a retort for that—just can’t help staring at Tim, transfixed with the way he moves despite a good half of his body still being ensnared in silken purple rope. He’s managed a decent balancing act, though, angling his legs wide enough to keep from toppling, though he hasn’t spared much effort to removing all of the rope around his wrists, loops of it draping off of him in swaying embellishments. 

His composure, though, steadily wanes, the muscles in his thighs straining visibly, his cock red and weeping at the head, fresh, pearly streams of pre beading up each time Tim sinks back down on Jonny. 

“Ah-ah,” Jonny tuts, amazed at how calm he sounds for all his blood has taken up residence between his legs, but he lashes out with adept speed, seizing Tim’s hips and forcing him to slow his next descent.

“You want to come?” He asks cruelly, glaring up at Tim who tries, and fails, to hide his desperation behind the cascading curls fallen round his face.

“Earn it, then. Show me how much you want it.”

“Like this?” Tim shudders in turn, pitching forward and anchoring his hands on Jonny’s shoulders, till the head of Jonny’s strap barely remains inside.

He eases back down, a viciously slow pace, and Jonny hungrily watches each inch disappear inside the man, almost entirely disregarding the lovely push of heat that blooms up from his core.

“That good?” Tim says. “Like watching me fuck myself on your cock, Jonny?” 

There’s a million and one smart-ass retorts for that, no doubt. Jonny, though, decides honesty will best suffice

And so, gauging carefully as Tim shakily rises up again, he hauls the man close, licking into his mouth with a gravelly, “ _Absolutely_ ,” and thrusts his hips up _hard_.

“ _Shit_!” Tim pants against Jonny’s mouth. “Sh- _shit_ , n’gain. Again, _please_.”

Jonny grins, and obliges, punctuating each swipe of tongue with a cant of the hips, till dialogue no longer matters, nor kisses, and he’s simply pounding up into Tim, the man holding himself in a rictus of agony, arms trembling, spine contrite, cock bobbing between their bodies, flushed and untouched, and Jonny, in his madness, vows to have him come just like that. Exposed and unlavished. Beautiful. Perfect.

And that Tim needn’t be told not to touch himself, and neither to expect touch, well… Jonny will certainly reward him for that later. Presently, he’s measuring the nearing of Tim’s peak, tasting out signs with each keen Tim exhales into his mouth.

And then—yes, there. That’s it, that ever-so-slightly-more-shrill-than-the-rest whimper as Tim buries his face into Jonny’s collar, and Jonny holds him there, petting the back of Tim’s neck, stroking his hair, his other hand splaying against the small of Tim’s back and marveling at the constellations of tension that break there, shatter like capillaries, as Tim comes, all contorted panting and arching and shaking and “ _ah-ah-ahhhhh…_ ” 

Jonny’s own orgasm seems unto an afterthought, almost, which is… something in and of its own epiphany given the mate’s typically selfish proclivities. Or maybe he just wasn’t bloody paying attention, too enraptured with Tim’s vulnerability to tame the heat from building, the _snap_ of that perfect broken point as Tim takes his cock to the root, in so doing angling the other end just _so_ inside Jonny and punching a crest of molten pleasure to the ends of every limb that hasn’t gone numb under Tim’s weight.

“ _God_ , Jonny…” Tim stammers, ragdoll limp atop the mate, sweaty and spent and bloody _smiling_ where he’s planted his mouth to Jonny’s pulse point, sucking an indulgent bruise there. 

Goddamn prick. For _that_ insubordination, Jonny gives him a harsh shove, sending Tim sprawling onto his back again. It’s a bit of a faff to undo the harness before bearing down on Tim, but Jonny succeeds in a decent clip of time, enough to spare him from having to wrangle Tim anymore than his wrists.

“How was that, then,” he inquires with just enough passive aggression to mask any genuine worry. 

“Tell you when I can think straight,” Tim answers smoothly, his eyes fallen closed, a contented smirk playing out across his lips.

Jonny kisses it, just because he can. 

“Mm,” Tim hums, and Jonny braces for a coy remark, but when none proves forthcoming, he dares imbibe another, this one erring toward messy, a contrivance Jonny likes to reserve when he’s just sucked Tim off and wants to be an arse about it.

“Keep that up,” Tim says between mouthfuls of Jonny’s searching tongue, “and you’ll be needing that again.”

He gestures weakly for the discarded harness and strap, and Jonny snorts.

“Would that be so bad?” He rebukes, and just to prove a point to _whoever_ , nudges his knee between Tim’s thighs, brushing his cock.

Tim hisses, a flash of pain along his smile lines, at the corners of his eyes, and Jonny does it again, devouring the sight.

“O-only if you let me blow you,” Tim finally answers. 

And, well… Jonny supposes he can allow that. For now, he takes what he wants of Tim’s mouth, his throat, the raw lines where the ropes rubbed too much at his skin, mapping each indiscretion and savoring their implied cruelties. 

Because it’s only as real as they make it. Because Tim wears his marks with such grace and gratitude, that any apprehension lingers only as an afterthought, a necessity for future indulgences, and an outcast to the pleasure they have just shared.

Because it only means as much as they want it to, and neither of them will admit to it, and that, itself, is part of the ploy, part of what they are to each other.

Because, because, because, but that’s for later, when Jonny doesn’t have such a beautiful man to do with what he wants, when sense slinks its way back to the forefront, and they can go back to being mates, bickering and fighting and killing and maiming. 

For now, it’s just them.

“Jonny?”

This, offered from a desperate, million miles away, and Jonny emerges from the inexplicable reverie that’s left him bowed over Tim’s leg, kissing each knot that still binds him. He looks up, to see Tim staring, heavy lidded and still ever so appraising as he reaches down, strokes Jonny’s cheek with the backs of his knuckles.

There’s no rest-of-the sentence, there. Nothing else to say. Just the watching, the seeing, the seen, and the vaguery of understanding that comes with it. And Tim is so awfully good at that, after all.

And if Jonny fell into those eyes forever, well, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world by half. Not at all.


End file.
